


your magnet tar-pit trap

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Biting, Bruises, Communication, Community: hc_bingo, Community: kink_bingo, Drug Addiction, Drunk Sex, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Ficlet, Light Masochism, Marking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot, Possession, Scratching, Substance Abuse, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is the way it always goes between them.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	your magnet tar-pit trap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suhair/gifts).



> Written, first and foremost, for Suhair/stopcallingmebitch @ tumblr, with the prompt, "Sam/Ruby, drunk!fic." Also written for the hc_bingo prompt, "bites" and the kink_bingo prompt, "possession/marking."

When she kisses Sam, she doesn't taste him. Not really, anyway. There's the lingering burn of the liquor on his tongue, but mostly, it's the sadness. All salty and slow, dragging over her lips as she, in turn, drags them over his. She's settled in his lap, head and stomach reeling, heart pounding around her chest like gunshot racket and she twists her fingers up inside his t-shirt, jerking him closer, grinding down into his hips, all chest against chest, mouth battering mouth,, heat crashing against heat.

He palms at her hips, all fumbling and schoolboy stupid—as though his massive hands could break her, if he isn't careful. As though Ruby's delicate and precious, the way nobody else has ever seen her. She could get used to this. She could grow accustomed to the gentle way he brushes his fingers through her hair, the way he brushes his finger down his jaw as if he's touching a museum piece and scared of breaking it or getting caught. She could let him sigh into her mouth as though they're really lovers instead of monsters, wolves pretending to be human.

At least, until he lets a growl come shambling out of the depths of his throat. Until he rears back like a viper and flings her to the mattress, digs his blunt nails into her sides, reminds Ruby who she really is. Snarling, she kicks back against him, her thigh into his, sends him crashing to the bed. She crawls on top of him. Drops into his lap again, legs splayed almost to a split so she can straddle him, and yanks him up to the tune of his t-shirt's collar ripping, stretching out from the force, from Sam's weight tugging back against it. His eyes spark up and then glaze over, and with a deep breath, he grips her 'round the waist and flings himself into another kiss.

This is the way it always goes between them: they start out slow, even half-romantic, blundering around and blindly groping for each other, lost in the haze of whatever pills they took in this time. Today, it's Vicodin all around, but they've had others in their systems—Valium, Xanax, Ativan; Percocet and Oxy; they'll even take cough syrup, if Gabriel can't come through with something better—and it's everything. Almost everything, at least. It gets them out of their heads, like magic, until it sinks in that they can't feel this, can't feel anything the way they want.

That's what they want from the drugs, except for right now, and it's when they have to take care of things for themselves. That's why they have to bite and claw at each other the way they do.

Ruby chuckles, breath nuzzling up against Sam's cheek, voice drier than the frozen air outside, and flings her arms around Sam's shoulders, holds him tighter to keep him from running away. She scratches around the curves of his shoulder-blades, dragging her fingers over his shirt's harsh cotton, hoping that she'll leave marks, that he'll do the same from gripping her hips so tightly. Any kind of marks, even little bruises, as long as they get past the haze. Sam can leave her anything at all. Anything that's tender, that she can feel, that says she's his because nobody else could get close enough to her high bar.

He kisses her like going at a carrion, like rending flesh from bone, and each snap of his jaws around her lips makes Ruby's stomach churn—she feels that, and the way he jerks her around. She smacks her kisses into his with the force of everything she can't say— _I'm so sorry, Sam… I'm sorry about your brother, I'm sorry that he's sick, I'm sorry that Dean won't talk to anyone right now… I'm so sorry that this is our only way to deal_ , she wants to tell him, she would if she could mouth her way around the words. If they wouldn't get stuck in her throat, the way they always do when she tries to open up her mouth. If her voice wouldn't die inside her throat at the very thought.

And with just a moan as he bucks up against her, she drops her hands to his hips. Bunches them up and rips him out of his shirt, tears it up over his head and his compliant arms. He does the same to her, in return: she rolls her hips, tries to pin him to the mattress using just her body, doesn't fight when he shoves off her leather jacket and strips away her blouse, her camisole, her bra. He scrapes his fingers down her stomach while she digs hers into his shoulders again, holds them there until he groans for her—she barely feels him drumming down to her belt; she has to make sure that he feels her digging at him. Has to make sure that he can feel _her_. All of her—her weight, her intent, her breath mingling up with his.

They buck and grind and batter into each other's hips. He cups her breast, grips onto her and digs his nails in _hard_. Even though he keeps them short, they manage to pierce flesh. She feels the blood start welling up—he's so uncreative when it comes to leaving marks behind. Ruby rides the rhythm that they've found, crashing her hips down into his. She licks her lips and smacks them, cracks them into his neck and bites. She kisses him like he's kissed her, diamond-hard and rending, working her whole mouth over the skin above his jugular vein—flicking her tongue against his pulse point to brace him for the moment when she bites. She sucks on his skin, wraps her lips around it.

She works it over harder than she's kissed him anywhere else, intent on making this bruise spread as far as she can get it. He groans underneath her, shuddering so hard that it reverberates inside her chest. So she bites him harder, works her mouth around the curve of his neck, around his Adam's apple, curling over to his carotid artery. She holds him in, feels his blood welling up underneath her nails, and leaves a trail of hickeys in her wake so he'll never be able to hide them because none of his flannel shirts have collars high enough. So everyone will know: the same way that she's his, Sam Winchester belongs to her. She's the one who didn't leave him behind. She's the one who stayed when nobody else would do it.

 _I'm sorry that I got you into this_ , she tells him without talking—she whispers wordlessly against where his skin's starting to bruise, grinds up against the erection straining against his jeans, lets a hand fall to his belt and fumbles at it— _but I didn't know what else to do… I still don't know what I can do for you… I just want to help you, Sam. Please, let me help._


End file.
